Small Talk

I was on the deck, outside the resort's dance hall, this weekend. A light drizzle was pattering off the leaves of some nearby trees but the breeze was still warm. Through the double doors into the club I could see several dozen couples swaying to Etta James' At Last.

Davey walked out, fishing a cigarette from his pocket. I flicked open my Zippo and lit it for him.

"Where's your girl?" I asked, looking past him at a tight little behind I hadn't noticed before.

"Oh... we, uh, broke up." He said quietly.

"Really? I thought she was a keeper."

"Well, we had a communication problem. I mean, I couldn't say anything without her misunderstanding me."

"Maybe you mumble." I suggested.

"I don't mumble." he said.

"What?"

"I said I don't... Ah, shut up Johnny."

"Jeeze," I replied. "Maybe that's why she left you."

"She didn't leave me, I left her!"

" 'Cause I heard you don't communicate so good. You know what I mean?"

Davey just stared at me for a couple of heartbeats. Then he continued his story. "A good example of her not understanding me was our last phone conversation."

Go ahead, I nodded telepathically.

"I swear, she was like Gracie Allen. We were going 'round and 'round about something when, finally, I'd had enough. So I said to her, 'Listen, we're breaking up.' She was quiet for a second or two and then she said real loud, 'Can you hear me NOW?' "

When we both stopped laughing, he flicked his butt over the rail and into a puddle. The song inside had changed and he said, "Later." and went in.

A moment after that, Frank walked out. Frank is a day trader and is always talking finances. "I think my ARM is getting ready to readjust." he said morosely.

"Have you tried using shorter strokes?" I asked.

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